


long since gone

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Series: i look at you and there's no speech left in me [9]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trans Luke, in which bobby feels guilty and conflicted and aching, in which bobby looks at carrie and sees luke in her music, trans Carrie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27442675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: “We have music”, says Carrie with Luke’s voice, with her pouting lips and her trembling hands, Julie’s laughter no longer tangled with her own, with splintered porcelain stuck to her lips. “So I’ll be okay.” Her wig lies, frazzled and ruffled on the floor, and she hasn’t taken her microphone off yet, and Bobby aches at the sight of her.
Relationships: Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Carrie Wilson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Luke Patterson
Series: i look at you and there's no speech left in me [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015690
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	long since gone

Carrie is a dream of bubblegum-pink sugar spun about her microphone – with a giggle or a sigh or a song, her cheeks flushed, her world held up by her voice buried somewhere in her chest. She steps on a stage and into his world with her mouth stretched wide and her wig as pink as her cheeks. She throws her feet and her whole life and Bobby’s good porcelain plates on this cold marble floor until the shards of them stuck to them both, something like Carrie’s dresses and Carrie’s voice and Carrie’s music wedged in between the pages of a notebook.

Carrie stands on a stage, her hands outstretched, her determination pink on her lips and all Bobby can see is –

Luke laughs, full bodied, and toppled over, his shirts slashed at the sides, Reggie’s seams a clean, neat thing, and he reaches for Bobby with his guitar-calloused hands, with his voice dropping, with the world in tandem around them all; Luke writes songs as if all he could breathe was music. As if, if he put down his pen or his guitar or his six-string or his _voice_ , he’d choke on the silence of it all, hanging by a thread and Bobby’s mouth. As if the world was nothing but this stage underneath his feet, this microphone smeared against his lips, and his music dripping from him.

Behind closed doors, Bobby drags Luke close until his exhale is Luke’s inhale, until the lights flicker and Luke lies in his sheets, his chest bare, his scars still red and raw against Bobby’s fingertips. Pressed against the garage wall, Luke laughs into the crook of Bobby’s neck, digs his hands into Bobby’s clothes and Bobby’s hair and Bobby’s voice and –

“We have music”, says Carrie with Luke’s voice, with her pouting lips and her trembling hands, Julie’s laughter no longer tangled with her own, with splintered porcelain stuck to her lips. “So I’ll be okay.” Her wig lies, frazzled and ruffled on the floor, and she hasn’t taken her microphone off yet, and Bobby aches at the sight of her:

Her hair is braided under her wig cap, her knuckles white around the fabric of her skirt, her cheeks are blotched and – her tears are a heavy, wet thing in his shirt. There’s something caught in her mouth or maybe in the bags under her eyes or maybe in the way she clings to him or maybe in the way his chest aches at the feeling of her in arms. Somehow, she feels as small as she did when she was born, with that loud voice and those big eyes, and Bobby kisses her forehead, and her trembling hands.

Somewhere, 25 years past, Luke throws his six string and his guitar and his life at his parents’ feet for them. He grasps at rings and necklaces and bracelets until they all snap, strung across the hollow of Bobby’s chest and all the lip gloss stuck to his skin before and after every gig; sugar sweet and viscous in his lungs. Somehwhere, 25 years past, Bobby carves a space in his parents’ garage for Alex’ anxiety, for Luke’s music and for Luke’s voice and for Luke, breathless in his room. Reggie lies, flushed and giggling, in all their laps, and he touches them only behind padlocked doors; safe. On stage, Luke is a lightening rod or maybe just melting into his own music or maybe filled to the brim with it all, and he closes his eyes and grabs the microphone and –

Carrie holds Dirty Candy up with her two good hands and her teeth buried in her own flesh, strings them up by her hips and her waist and her voice, and Bobby holds her by the wrists until she screams all that lies lodged in his stomach back at him. She grabs plates and cutlery and worlds and smashes them on the floor; salt stained and hollow voiced and somewhere in between her wig cap and the microphone hanging on by a thread, Luke finally screams at Bobby for all he’s ever done.

Sometimes, Bobby looks at his child and how she lives for music, and all he can see is Luke.


End file.
